


I know this whole damn city thinks it needs you (but not as much as I do)

by obsessivelyintrigued



Category: Batman v Superman: Dawn of Justice, DC Cinematic Universe, Justice League (2017)
Genre: Bottom Clark, Feels, Hurt/Comfort, Justice League Coda, M/M, Plot What Plot/Porn Without Plot, Porn with Feelings, Smut, Top Bruce, brucetopsclark2k17, but rlly all of the feels of bruce wayne, lots of them - Freeform
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-11-24
Updated: 2017-11-24
Packaged: 2019-02-06 07:53:24
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,827
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12813015
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/obsessivelyintrigued/pseuds/obsessivelyintrigued
Summary: "I know you made himwith gunmetal bonesand wolf's teethI know you made him to bea warriora soldiera heroBut even gunmetal can warpand even wolf's teeth can dulland I do not want to see him breakthe way old and worn and overused things do."-@thatisparadoxicalvia justakansasboy (on tumblr)Bruce presses his lips on the back of his hand, and Clark lets him, a small smile gracing his lips.Clark and his smile, bright, blinding; like the sun that fuels him. It is a remarkable dichotomy, how he seems to be the most human of them all; how he is filled with hope, always seeing the best in others even if there is a little to see.Then he flies across the sky; a streak of red and blue so quick you miss it in a blink. Then he shoots lasers from his eyes, his very breath capable of extinguishing fires. Then he throws punches — deadly even without the finesse Bruce would have utilized.“What are you thinking about?”He pulls Clark closer,“You.”





	I know this whole damn city thinks it needs you (but not as much as I do)

**Author's Note:**

> I just realized how the titles are off with the point of view of the stories, xD
> 
> Title from Fall Out Boy’s _The Last of the Real Ones_
> 
> Companion piece to [you are the sun and I’m just the planets (spinning around you)](http://archiveofourown.org/works/12757290) but can be read as a standalone.
> 
> Thank you so much to belalex for this fic's [Russian translation](https://ficbook.net/readfic/6310804)

_Tell me the story_  
_about how the sun loved the moon so much_  
_he died every night  
_ _just to let her breathe_

  
  


Clark is the warmth and hustle of summer days in Metropolis. The vast yellow and green fields across Smallville swaying along the wind. The sharp bites of coldness on the first day of winter. He is the safety and relief offered by a home after a long, hard day.

 

He is the feeling of rush when Bruce swings across buildings, chasing. He is the adrenaline rushing through his veins, the assured rhythmic beating of his heart. He is both the danger on dark alleys when the sun hides beneath the horizon and the first flash of light on the crack of dawn.

 

Clark is the dream and the nightmare. The kind that leaves Bruce sweat-slicked and panting upon waking, merely half-remembering the images his subconscious conjured up but letting him know that it is both beautiful and terrible. He is the burn of whiskey down his throat when Gotham gets too difficult; her winding streets confusing even for a man who knew her by both heart and mind.

 

_Twenty years in Gotham. How many good men do we know? How many stayed that way?_

 

 

Clark is kisses and harsh bites on scarred skin, the roaming hands cataloging everything that he can feel. He lets Bruce push him down to the bed, laying him on his cape.

 

He is the blue of his suit, the red boots on his feet. The symbol of hope that fell from the sky.

 

 

Clark is those unfitting and unflattering suit he wears on galas and soirées. Sharp and calculating eyes hidden behind thick-rimmed glasses. He is the champagne he holds onto the whole night; taking a sip, yet not quite.

 

He is the opposite of the darkness in Gotham, yet the light of Metropolis is not enough to describe him.

 

But the world, the whole world he had cared too much to die for might just be enough.

 

 

Clark holds him close, hands moving from his arm to his chest, resting over his fast-beating heart.

 

 

He is the tightness of the cowl when he gets shot. He is the cushioned hit of a bullet that didn't get lucky enough to get past the armor, the knuckles on balled fists that catches his jaw and pecs. He is the glare of enemies, the laughter of the insane, the question and answer to all riddles.

 

He is the juxtaposition of lightness and heaviness of the first suit he had worn. He is the comfort of the Kevlar, of metal forged for him — made to protect; and in some twisted, metaphorical thought, meant to destroy him right to his very core.

 

 

Clark is the soft skin beneath his hands. Moaning his name as hands that can bend steel — hands that can make worlds bow down and challenge the cosmos to fold — grasp his shoulders, nails scratching skin and raised scars. Holding on as Bruce press heated kisses lower and lower down his body.

 

He is the last ray of moonlight before she hides behind the sun.

 

And he is beautiful. Too beautiful it had hurt to look.

 

 

It was the power, Bruce has told himself. Too much power. Raw power more than enough to wipe out the entire human race. He had seen it. And he had deemed it ugly.

 

_If we believe that there's even a one percent chance that he is our enemy we have to take it as an absolute certainty... And we have to destroy him._

 

And now he sees it's not. It's not the power. It never was. It's the humanity that grew on a being who wasn't even human.

 

That was then.

 

Now, even Batman knows when to admit he was wrong.

 

 

Gasps echoes across the lakehouse as fingers twisted in his hair. Bruce looks up, the hazel of his eyes meeting his hooded blues that even the warmest and clear days of Kansas cannot compete against.

 

_"Bruce."_

 

And he surges up, parting the lips that whisper his name with such reverence with his tongue in a deep, fierce kiss because who is he — who is he to deny the call of someone like Clark.

 

 

He was the scathing burn of fire as it swallows the manor; years upon years of memories, wood and stone that built generations - crumbling. _What falls... is fallen._

 

_And so falls the house of Wayne._

 

He is the sharp drop of rain in its rubble. He was the spark in the batsignal when they turn it on.

 

Clark is the lightning strike and rumble of thunder during the stormy nights in Gotham. And Bruce isn't the one to back down as he perches atop one of the gargoyles in the city, an ominous figure guarding her with all the might his humanity could offer. He is the curve of a trigger, the hiss of a speeding bullet towards its target.

 

He is the sound of pearls hitting the gutter; the blood on the pavement.

 

He had never seen him before then. _I know you didn’t bring me because you like me._

 

_I don't not-_

_No, I didn’t. I did because I-_

 

Bruce could never say it out loud.

 

 

_Everything's changed. Men fall from the sky; the gods hurl thunderbolts, innocents die._

 

_He’s more human than I am._

 

 

Clark moves on top of him, switching, so Bruce lays on his back. Slowly, he places a kiss on his forehead, on the burn scar on his shoulders. He kisses him and Bruce groans, threading his calloused fingers through thick, black curls.

 

He is the heat of the sun on days spent in the Arabia. He is the sweet, numbing pain on his muscles as he gets hauled by shadows; willing him to become one himself.

 

He is the heat of the sun so close, yet he would welcome every scalding burn.

 

Bruce raises himself, placing a hand on the small of Clark’s back. Arms circle his shoulders as Clark presses their foreheads together, eyes closed.

 

“What are you thinking about?”

 

He pulls Clark closer, “You.”

 

 

Clark is the deep red of his cape, a sight that gives hope and instills fear — effortlessly so. He is the rustle of papers in the Daily Planet bullpen, the words painstakingly sewed together to deliver truth and justice.

 

He is the story he had written over the years. The days and months and years spent traveling the world. He is everyone he had saved; and all that he had hoped to save.

 

He is the controlled punches that the needing to be subdued warrants. He is the danger of every blow against anyone who threatens his adopted planet.

 

He is the hot laser that shoots from his eyes capable of different visions, and yet he is also the understanding that the same eyes conveyed, the same eyes so blue it is definitely not of this earth.

 

He is every headline in the newspaper, yet the bold letters are not enough to portray how bigger than the world he truly is.

 

_The world needs Superman... the team needs Clark._

 

 

Bruce presses his lips on the back of his hand, and Clark lets him, a small smile gracing his lips.

 

He shivers when Clark wraps his leg around his waist, hips moving against the other; pulling him even closer by a hand on the back of his neck.

 

“Talk to me, Bruce. Tell me.”

 

“I made you a promise.”

 

Clark smiles at him, so blindingly bright that if it were given to Bruce two years ago, he would've turned away, “You did.”

 

Later, Bruce will stare at the mixed clutter of black armor and red and blue fabric on the bedroom floor. And maybe then, he’d smile too.

 

 

It wasn’t until he sees him lifeless, a gash tearing his chest open. It wasn’t until he sees a casket, staring from far away but feeling the heaviness all the same.

 

It wasn’t until then that he realized _men are still good._

 

 

Clark muffles his cries with his cape, biting at the cloth as Bruce opens him up with his tongue.

 

“Please. _Please_ , Bruce.”

 

Bruce moves his tongue faster, as deep as he could; hands grabbing at Clark’s ass to pull him closer. Clark bucks against him, reaching behind to run his hands through Bruce's thick hair, “Please.”

 

And of course, _of course, Clark. As you wish._

 

 

He is the messy scrawl on a notepad that is not entirely needed. The sure questions during interviews. The occasional drop of a pen, a mark for feigned clumsiness.

 

Clark and his smile, bright, blinding; like the sun that fuels him. It is a remarkable dichotomy, how he seems to be the most human of them all; how he is filled with hope, always seeing the best in others even if there is too little to see.

 

Then he flies across the sky; a streak of red and blue so quick you miss it in a blink. Then he shoots lasers from his eyes, his very breath capable of extinguishing fires. Then he throws punches — deadly even without the finesse Bruce would have utilized.

 

Then Bruce realizes he’s a god.

 

And how rare and beautiful he truly is.

 

 

Clark gasps, turning his head away as Bruce kisses down his neck; sucking and biting, marveling at the mark he leaves — even if it doesn’t linger for long.

 

“Faster—” Clark urges him by pulling him closer with his leg, his hands tightening their grip on his cape, “Come on, Bruce. _Harder_ , I’m not going to break.”

 

Bruce groans, and relents; moving his hips faster and _harder_ , just as Clark wished. He’s right; he won’t break.

 

_But I might._

 

Bruce didn’t say anything, he merely laces their hands together, chasing the ends of the universe.

 

 

He is the joyful greetings too early in the morning for Bruce’s liking. He is the silly shenanigans with Barry that makes Bruce want to smile.

 

He is the earth-shattering punches against Diana, the comfortable yet still wary talks with Arthur and the comfort his presence offers Victor whenever he chooses to stay in one corner.

 

He is the joy and appreciation to Alfred, especially in the kitchen where he drags Bruce to eat properly. He is the constant light in the darkness of the cave.

 

 

Clark is the broken moan of his name. The controlled curl of his fingers against his, the arch of his back in rapture.

 

Clark is the arms wrapped around him, urging him to let go. The soft whispers of everything. The soft lips on his temple.

 

Clark is the heat and comfort by his side, a light to guide him home during the nights spent guarding Gotham, and during days spent trying not to let the world burn.

  


_There was a time above... a time before. There were perfect things... diamond absolutes._

  


The forest and the lake around them stilled, for now, the world is at peace.

  


**Author's Note:**

> Let's gush over these two idiots on [tumblr!](http://queen---queer.tumblr.com/)
> 
> ppl know what I say, lol  
> #brucetopsclark2k17


End file.
